


To Lose Everything, Just To Find You (or, Five Uses For Everyday Honey)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Commitment, Developing Relationship, Endearments, Epic, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fix-It, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Honey, Literary References & Allusions, Love, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a rather belated birthday-present for euruaina, who requested some Erik/Charles sweetness; it got somewhat epic, I’m afraid. Falling in love, sweetness, heartbreak, hope, reconciliation, honey. In this first section, first kisses and sweetness and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one: sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Title and overall opening and closing lines from the Foo Fighters’ “What If I Do?”, this time.

_back and forth, that voice of yours, keeps me up at night_   
_help me search to find the words that eat you up inside_   
_I go side to side like the wildest tides in your hurricane_   
_and I only hide what is on my mind because I can't explain_   
_what if I do, lord_   
_what if I don't_   
_I'd have to lose everything just to find you…_

 

Charles puts honey in his tea, in the mornings.

No. Charles does not _put_ honey in his tea. More accurately, Charles has a sensuous love affair with honey and a spoon and the scent of bergamot and steam drifting through the air. Charles pours molten gold into dark liquid and swirls it around, a fortune-teller at play, perhaps, reading all of Erik’s possible futures in the leaves.

Sometimes, watching, Erik lets himself believe that there _are_ possible futures. That sweetness isn’t just beyond his grasp. Sometimes, in those early-morning moments, himself caught between post-run sweatiness and the refuge of his shower, amused blue eyes flicking up to meet his as they run into each other at the foot of the stairs, he forgets to not yearn for the taste of orange-blossom sugar on his mouth. Sometimes.

Charles often idly runs a finger along the lip of the jar, after he’s done pouring. The gold paints his skin with delicious temptation and Charles grins, impishly, and licks his fingers, tongue sliding out to collect every last drop of pleasure.

Erik, on those occasions, wants to throw something very heavy against a wall, because he’s jealous of a damned foodstuff, and that’s just ludicrous.

Sometimes he pictures himself pushing Charles up against the wall, instead. There are a number of small indentations in the underside of the breakfast table, where Erik’s pocket paperclips have reacted to this thought. There’s also a very strangely shaped towel rack in his bathroom, because he evidently has no self-control left at all.

He should probably fix that towel rack. He will. Before he goes. The day before he goes. Before he finally has to go.

The towel rack stays crookedly twisted and Charles smiles at him in the kitchen on a foggy afternoon, grey clouds hovering around the windowpane with the curiosity of a dozen cats, and there’s a mug of tea in those articulate academic hands and Erik says “Not Earl Grey?” because he can tell by the scent alone.

Charles looks a bit surprised. “No. Pineapple, in fact.”

“There’s pineapple tea?”

“There is. Would you like to try some?” And that’s such a Charles offer, so instinctive, holding out whatever he has for the world to take: would this make you happy, make your life somehow better? Then here, take it, have mine.

Erik takes. He doesn’t give. The world’s given him nothing, after all.

Some piece of him wants to shout this truth into Charles’s face, to make him see, to force him to _know_ that caring for Erik is a one-way street, road signs to a dead end, where the desolation begins, when Erik can’t or won’t or doesn’t know how to give him anything in return.

Charles has honey on his lips. A streak of brightness, at one corner of his mouth. It’d no doubt taste like sinfulness and invitation. And pineapple tea.

He collects the mug from those hands, with care. It’s not even a decision.

“This is…” Delectable. Decadent. Tropical, exotic, _erotic_. “…not bad.”

“I know.” Charles hooks elbows against the counter, leans back, messy-haired and casual. “Good run?”

“I…not bad.” Again. Charles hasn’t asked for the return of his tea. Erik keeps it. Plunder. Conquest. Salvage. Or maybe only a gift.

The billowy clouds part briefly at the request of the wind, then gather up around the window again, avidly observing.

“Are you…I thought you were writing a paper?” This emerges as a question. An invitation to further closeness. Damned treacherous voice. He’s not seen those jewel-blue eyes all day.

“I’m failing to write a paper, yes. That was why the tea. I needed a break. The children are off doing something unspecified involving my mother’s greenhouse and a game of super-powered freeze-tag, possibly literal, I believe.”

“You left them alone with your mother’s greenhouse?”

“Oh, well… unsupervised play can lead to new discoveries, and all that. And I’m keeping an eye on them.” Charles shrugs, without moving; doesn’t bother making the gesture, no hands near his temple. They both know he doesn’t need to. “In any case, there’re no plants left in it. If there ever were any. I doubt she bothered; she hadn’t by the time I left, at least.”

There’s something just a bit too careless, in that last phrase; studied dispassion, throwing shadows like the clouds. “Oxford,” Erik says, as if he doesn’t know, and Charles smiles and says “Oxford, yes,” right back, which might be agreement or amusement at Erik’s small-talk attempts or only a means of ending the conversation.

“It’s not,” Charles says, “not the last one, I mean. Maybe the first two.”

“I have asked you not to do that…” He leans against the counter, too. Their shoulders touch, companionable. He’s taller than Charles, who grins, as that fact gets registered all over again.

“So you have. But you were shouting. Some very intense emotions, there. Do you have intense emotions about my tea, Erik?”

“Pineapple tea…it’s certainly different.” _Do you ever feel the need to apologize for ANYTHING?_

_More often than you’d think,_ Charles admits, too cheerfully. _I’m telepathic, not a saint_. “I like pineapple.”

Charles _isn’t_ a saint. He’s capable of being incredibly high-handed and smug and manipulative, and Erik’s seen him drunk and flirtatious and giggling at his own awful pick-up lines, has witnessed the morning-after hangovers and tell-tale marks of certain inebriated encounters. Has hated Charles, just a little bit, and himself even more, on those mornings.

He can’t even say why. It’s _not_ a why, exactly. It’s only the free-floating sense that the world’s not right, that Charles shouldn’t be with someone else, shouldn’t need to get drunk and sleep with half the population of any given bar in order to feel for a brief moment as if someone wants him, not when Erik’s right here and possessed of a foolish heart that performs backflips every time those blue eyes smile into his.

He can’t remember the last time someone found him worthy of a smile. A real smile, not mercenary or ominous or edged around with cruelty; no, Charles smiles at him as if there’s a private warmth in the air, some shared joke only he and Erik know, laughter that’s not _at_ anyone but _with_ , instead, intimate and breathless as the crash of ocean waves over bare skin and sand.

Some part of him thinks that Charles should know all these things already. Telepathy, after all. Shouldn’t Charles be able to comprehend all the words Erik’s not yet figured out how to say?

But that answer’s no, too. Because Erik’s asked for privacy. And Charles, while also perfectly capable of bending his own promises if not outright breaking them, won’t do so without manifestly good reason. Erik knows that the same way he knows that the sky is blue, that he’ll kill the man called Sebastian Shaw someday soon, that Charles has two small freckles on the bridge of his nose.

There’s one freckle near his lips, too. Next to that tantalizing gleam of honey.

“Do you want your tea back, then?” he offers, and then takes a sip, because evidently the rest of him is conspiring to demonstrate the inadequacy of his words. Tropical sweetness flows and sparkles over his tongue.

“No,” Charles says, looking utterly serene, hair falling into his eyes. “You seem to be enjoying it. It wasn’t being particularly helpful tea, in any case.”

He gazes at the mug. Wonders whether it’d listen if he scolded it. He’s generally good at intimidation, and Charles wants a helpful beverage.

Charles smiles like he’s heard that thought. Erik tightens his fingers around the mug and clings to _his_ tea. The blue eyes’ve just said he can have that much, at least.

There’s a dramatic and musical crash from outside. Almost simultaneously, Charles blinks, and says, “Ouch.”

“What—are you—are you all right?”

“Ah…yes. Though I can’t say the same for my mother’s greenhouse. And I think Sean might have a concussion; we’ve just been hit over the head with a collapsing window, which was why the ouch, if you were wondering. We—you and I, I mean—should probably go out there and help them clean up, there’s glass positively everywhere—”

“Charles,” Erik says. He’s got one hand on that shorter shoulder, not sure when he moved it there, drawn by the hint of pain in that elegant accent like the irresistible tug of magnetism in his soul. And he’s probably standing too close, now, tea shoved heedlessly onto the countertop, other hand free to brush the hair out of those sea-spray-and-sapphire eyes at last.

He _is_ taller than Charles, especially now, shocked into upright motion and away from the lazy support of those counters, where Charles still is, because he’s not bothered to move, only leaning there and looking up at Erik and continuing to smile.

It’s hardly a remarkable moment. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, no particular date, the skies all stormy-grey outside, and inside Charles is failing to write a paper and Erik’s just come back from a run, and at any minute the children will barge in demanding aid. Just another day. Any ordinary day.

“You always put honey in your tea,” Erik says, not a question, and touches Charles’s hair again, because he can. Their legs are touching, too. No spaces left between them except the ones they create.

“I like the sweetness,” Charles says right back, and tips his head, so that Erik’s fingers slide along his skin. _I may have been known to devour honey with a spoon, straight from the jar, on occasion._                 

_When you were younger?_ “Does this hurt?” He rests his palm over that temple, gently. Imagines he can feel the hummingbird beats of Charles’s pulse everywhere, throughout his body. Charles stays very still, and lets him explore.

“If by younger you mean early last week, yes.” _And, no…maybe a little…only if I focus on it. It’s not me with the headache, you see. It was only the surprise._

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, and means it. _Is there anything I can do?_

Charles doesn’t physically blink, but the impression lingers in their heads nevertheless. “You didn’t—you don’t need to apologize. Or to worry about me. I’m all right, I promise you.” _Erik?_

_What is it?_

_Thank you._

_Oh—_ He doesn’t have good words, at that. The astonishment descends like the thunder outside. Leaves him dizzy, with the impact. That gratitude is so sincere. Offered shyly, surprisedly, hesitantly happy that someone might care.

_Charles_ , he says, after a second, _you gave me your tea._                                                         

_I’m happy to share._

Sharing. Is that what they’re doing, over late-night chess games and challenges, conversations that glint in the night like the shine of light from a martini glass, wet with the imprint of lips? On interminable recruiting trips during which Erik always drives, ever since the morning Charles belatedly admitted that American street signs confuse him and Erik refused to concur even though it’s true for him too? Have they been sharing themselves all along?

“Yes?” Charles says, and then, _I mean if you want that—I mean I could want that, I could want you, I DO want you, I—but if you don’t, if you aren’t—if I’m not what you—_

“You have honey on your lips.” _Yes. Yes, you are._

“I do? Oh…I do.” The first small sweep of pink tongue fails to gather it all, and Erik thinks as loudly as he can _No, wait, my turn_ , and leans forward with the last word.

And that’s how he kisses Charles for the first time, laughter in his head and the taste of honey and tea exploding through all his senses, fireworks on a wintry afternoon in upstate New York and the kitchen countertops applauding behind them.


	2. two: pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, some Charles-perspective, in their bedroom. Just remember, with this ending, there're three more chapters to go. Happy endings, I promise.

Charles has a larger bed. That’s not the only reason they’ve turned his room into theirs, but it’s among the top three. Besides, it’s not as if he’s thought of any of these rooms as his in years. If ever.

Erik is lying stretched out across the sheets, blue silk because Charles likes the feel of expensive fabric on his skin and knows that he’s more attractive framed by blue; Erik, of course, looks spectacular, lean and toned and contentedly satisfied, managing as ever to seem to be in exactly the right place. Erik makes the world reshape itself to fit his desires, wherever he goes, Charles thinks, and smiles.

_You look happy._

_I was thinking about you._

“Really?” Erik sits up, at that. Those cool eyes, that complicated pale grey-blue-green color that Charles has never seen anywhere else and finds so beautifully unique in so many ways, narrow, unconvinced. _You also look rather pensive._

“I’m not—well, I suppose I am.” Those eyes know him too well for anything other than truth. _I was thinking about you, though. In our bed. How much I enjoy seeing you here._

“I enjoy seeing _you_ here,” Erik says, an echo of and an answer to Charles’s undefined earlier contemplations. “You ought to know that by now.” But despite the impatient words he slides over, on the bed, and puts a hand on the back of Charles’s neck, rubbing gently, reminders, reaffirmations.

“I love you,” Charles tells him, out loud, and Erik looks surprised, not at the words themselves—they’ve not been saying those words for long, only for a week and a day, and consequently both still take the opportunity to indulge in the phrase whenever possible—but at the choice.

“Are you all right?” Under that, worried little whispers, chasing each other around on frantic feet: _love also always/ but oh god what did I/ did I hurt him/ I hurt everything/ that last time with the cufflinks and the/ I’ve never done this with anyone and I don’t know/ he knows more than I do and what if it wasn’t/ I’m so sorry and why wouldn’t he stop me/ Charles?_

He reaches up and catches Erik’s hand in his; the hand doesn’t shake, because Erik’s trained himself out of any of those physical cues for lesser mortals, but the long fingers wrap around his a bit too hard. _I’m fine. I promise. I only wanted to hear it. I love you._

 _And I love you…_ Erik still sounds concerned. As if he believes that _Charles_ doesn’t believe it.

“I know you do. I was only thinking…” Outside, the wind howls briefly through the trees. Slackens, and fades _. I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry—_

 _For WHAT?_ Some anger at the lack of useful information, but real fear, also, now. Naked and exposed. Erik letting him see the emotion, which is a form of trust, really: Erik isn’t afraid to be afraid, not when it comes to Charles.

So maybe Charles can deal with some of his own lurking fears, too. He certainly can’t be any less courageous than Erik, right here, right now.

In answer, he leans back into Erik’s weight, nudges them both down into the bed and the feathery mattress. That mattress’d earned a raised eyebrow, the very first time; Erik’s single eyebrow could speak scathing volumes, but Charles’d grinned at him and murmured non-verbal promises about appreciating the softness, and since then Erik hasn’t said a mattress-related word.

Erik lets himself be pushed into the fluff, even though he could flatten Charles with a single move if he wanted to. They both know that’s true, and they both know the corollary: because he could, he won’t.

 _You’d stop me if I tried_ , Erik offers, now, hesitantly. _You know that you could._

 _Very likely, yes. But I’d rather not have to. So let’s agree to not ever find out._ He settles into Erik’s embrace, thoughtfully. _I did want to tell you something, though. Is that all right?_

_Of course. Anything._

The wind hums at them, encouragingly, around the antique walls. Charles takes Erik’s hand and sets it on his own arm, gently. “Can you feel that?”

“I’m…not sure what you’re asking me to—”

“Oh. Sorry. Not with your hand. With your abilities. Might be difficult, since there’s nothing actually there anymore.”

“What—Charles _when did you have metal pins in your arm!”_

“Oh, so your perceptions _are_ that sensitive, fascinating…”

“Answer the question!” _Are you all right, what happened, why do you feel cold when you think about—_

“I am!” _You know how I feel about this house. I was thinking about the bedrooms, earlier. How hard I’d tried not to think of this place as home, even before I left, even when we all moved back in. And then I looked at you._

_I love you. Please tell me what happened._

_Oh, well…which time? My stepfather rather enjoyed seeing me in pain, you understand. So it happened frequently._

_I could kill him for you._

_He’s already dead, Erik._

_I could kill him again for you…_

“Some people give flowers. In any case, that’s not what I was trying to tell you. I’m trying to tell you…oh, stop looking at me as if I’m made of eggshells, would you? You know that isn’t true…where was my sentence, again?” _Oh, right. I was trying to tell you that this felt like home. Tonight, with you. Every night with you. I can…feel it in my bones._

 _Charles,_ Erik breathes, in the sudden silence of the wind and the soft golden light of the lamps in the dark, _can I hold you?_

_Of course you can._

_You…what you said…about coming home…_

_Yes?_

_I am sorry. I know—I do remember what having a home feels like. And losing one. But you’ve never—_

_It’s all right._

_I can be your home._

_You—_

_You’re already mine._ Truth like a heartbeat. Like the reality of Erik’s arms around his back. Strength and support, muscles encircling his back as if attempting to become his personal fortress. Flying buttresses, he decides, and ponders whether Erik might be able to fly.

“Are you smiling? I can feel you smiling.” _I like you smiling._

 _I am. I love you. And…_ “…I love _this_ , too.”

“Again, already? Are you feeling particularly insatiable?” Erik kisses him anyway, though, so it’s not a no.

_I’d like to. You feel…I can hear your heartbeat. And feel your voice, when you talk, while you’re holding me. And I want…_

_You want to feel me other places, as well?_

_Please._ He tries not to sound too plaintive, but it’s difficult. Erik looks at him consideringly, shakes that head. “Charles, you know you don’t need to seduce me with your formidable sexual talents, correct? I’m already here.”

_I know…_

“You never need to. I’d love you regardless. I will love you regardless. Of anything. Clear?”

Charles nods, because he’s not sure he can answer, and Erik mutters some suspiciously obscene-sounding words in German in their heads and then kisses him, forcefully enough to make his point _extremely_ clear.

When he can think again, he says _Definitely better_ , and Erik retorts _Good!_ and goes back to kissing him all the other places, too.

_And you’re never allowed to think you’re unattractive. I’ve wanted to do this since I met you. Since the first time I watched you pour honey into your tea and lick your fingers._

Charles says _Mmm…_ because Erik’s apparently chosen to demonstrate by sliding one of his own fingers into Charles’s mouth, and Charles licks and strokes and swirls his tongue around every bit of skin in appreciation, tasting the warmth of silk sheets and Erik.

Erik makes a very satisfactory noise when Charles draws that finger further inside. So he does it again, teasing, everything he’d do to another particular body part, imagining Erik’s cock in his mouth, thick and hard and filling his throat, and Erik nearly chokes on his next breath.

_Some warning, if you would, please…_

_But this is such fun. Besides, you know how much I like letting you put things in my mouth. And in other places._

_Good god, Charles._

_What? In any case, you have YOUR hand in a very interesting place._ Sneaking between his legs, in fact. Curling around his own arousal, and stroking, and Charles moans and rolls over onto his back and pulls Erik down on top of him. Erik growls, but softly. Uses his legs to nudge Charles’s apart.

_You love this, too, don’t you? My fingers in your mouth, you making them wet for me, before I put them inside you?_

_Oh—!_

_Yes, exactly—_

_No, I mean—there was something I meant to do, earlier! Before you distracted me with that thing with my cufflinks and the—_

_THIS thing? Also I think we need to buy you extra cufflinks. So that this pair can stay in the bedroom. Or just stay right here._

_Oh god—_

_Good?_

_Yes but—no, seriously, you’ve just reminded me—_

_Of WHAT?_

_I had plans for you!_

“You what,” Erik says again, but he’s laughing as he lets Charles escape, delight that Charles can feel radiating through his own body, Erik’s astonished pleasure at laughing in bed, being _able_ to laugh in bed, being able to laugh at all. “Honestly? You’re stopping to find…honey. Oh, no…”

“ _Seductive_ honey,” Charles says, still dancing on the giddy upsurge of Erik’s joy, “you said as much, and I brought it up here quite a while earlier, I meant to use it the first time, but…”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Nor will you. Now…” _You did say you liked me licking it from my fingers_. He hops back onto the bed. Watches Erik watching him. He’s not even embarrassed. He’d thought he might be—he has very little shame in bed, of course, hard to have any shame left when one’s woken up wearing only pink panties in a stranger’s hotel room more than once, but it’s different with Erik, because everything is different with Erik, and half the time Charles feels like he’s the one who’s the virgin, because sex has never meant anything like this before and he never wants it to end—but he’s not. Because he and Erik, together, can do anything.

Including all of his previously undiscovered fantasies. The ones he’d never known he had, until he’d spotted Erik eying his sugar-sticky fingertips hungrily.

It’s not a large jar. And he might’ve been eating out of it already, at some never-to-be-disclosed point.

“Yesterday morning?”

“Now who’s eavesdropping? Just because I let you hear me, too…” That’s actually somewhat inadvertent. He’s never had this intense a connection, the kind of bond that lingers, omnipresent reassurance in the back of his thoughts like a shoulder constantly leaning against his, with anyone else. He could likely sever the link if he ever truly had to, but he doesn’t mind. He feels comforted, somehow, knowing that Erik’s always merely a thought away.

_Always._

_I love you_ , Charles tells him, wordless and elemental, pure truth like the roar of the sea, the invisible force of the wind outside. Unseen, except for the traces it leaves. Weather-marks, eternal, in both their souls.

_I love you and your unnatural cravings for sugar. Are you certain it’s not some sort of secondary mutation?_

“If it is,” Charles says decidedly, “I think proper experimental research ought to be done,” and slides his finger into the jar and out, coating of opulent amber over his skin. Licks his fingertip, slowly, at first because he’s trying to make Erik forget words again and then just because he’s distracted by the taste. Sugar, blossoming over his tongue.

Erik stares. Charles grins, in their heads—the expression probably tastes like honey there, too—and runs his tongue all along the length of his finger, flexible joints, the blunt edges of a slightly too-short nail.

This time Erik says something astoundingly blasphemous, not in any language Charles knows although he gets the general sense, and he could pluck the translation out of someone’s head but he kind of prefers it this way, a mystery, himself not knowing everything just yet.

He smiles. Slips his finger back into cool liquid, takes it out. Reaches over and touches Erik’s bare skin. Erik’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t object—in fact, his mental processes are shouting _YES YES YES_ quite loudly—so Charles continues, painting designs, idly drawing symbols, letters of the Greek alphabet, scientific notation.

_Are…are you…did you just calculate the size of my…_

_The answer was infinity, in case you were wondering._

_That’s…hardly…accurate mathemathics, Charles…_

_It certainly feels that way. And I should know_. He pauses to lick some extraneous lines, errors of notation, off of Erik’s stomach. So much muscle. And scar tissue, of course. There’s a story behind every one. He knows many of them. Erik will tell him the rest, someday. They’ll have time for that. They _will_. They have to, because if not, if his memories and Erik’s past are correct and happy endings don’t happen, then what are they looking for here together?

He accidentally—honestly an accident, he’d been saving that for later—brushes his cheek against Erik’s cock, already impressively hard and straining upwards. Considers for a second, touches his tongue briefly to the head—Erik gasps—and then says, happily, _Needs sugar, I think_. And collects the jar, and pours, deliberate drips and drizzles that collect and pool over Erik’s tanned skin.

Erik makes a noise that can only be described as a desperate squeak. Charles is very much going to mock him mercilessly for that later, but not now. Now they both have other priorities.

One more decoration. Golden stickiness, shining streams of amber, caressing Erik’s aching cock; Charles knows exactly how badly it’s aching, because he can feel all of Erik’s arousal in his head, bright and demanding as a sunrise.

In response, he leans down and licks up one particular drip before it can fall onto the sheets. Pauses, to look at Erik’s face. Perfect.

“Delicious,” he agrees, lips millimeters from sensitive skin, knowing that Erik will feel the words as they travel softly on breaths of air, _I think this is a successful experiment so far_ , and Erik groans and that cock, along with every last metal item in the room, twitches and jumps.

Charles laughs, in their heads, as the wind outside chuckles merrily along, and then accepts that invitation. Devours him in earnest this time, following every meandering trace of sweetness from base to tip, lingering over areas that make Erik cry out and jerk his hips up off the sheet as Charles breathes in and takes him deeper.

Erik’s not precisely small. But Charles doesn’t mind. He likes the feeling, being that full, messy and opened up and taking everything Erik can give. Because Erik _does_ give; Erik gives him this, this sight, this trust, this tentative vulnerability, the wondering expression in those eyes just as he comes and comes apart and lets Charles hold him together.

He can’t help smiling, with the anticipation. Erik mutters something in German that translates as _love/mine/little mouse/Charles/yes_ in their heads, and Charles is definitely going to ask him about that middle one after, but for now only gets revenge by speeding up, finding all those spots he remembers from previous occasions, suggestions of teeth and roughness because Erik likes that sometimes, wildness and the taste of honey overwhelming all his senses.

Erik’s hands land on his head, heavy and warm; not gentle, because Erik’s too far gone in pleasure for gentle, Charles can hear the echoes of that need everywhere inside and out, but the demand is an exquisite one, and he doesn’t mind. Likes the feeling, in fact, the knowledge that Erik wants him, will take him and use him and claim him and in the claiming surrender control.

He breathes in, and relaxes into Erik’s hold, intimate surrender; and then, because he really can’t let Erik get away with reducing him to _complete_ passivity, curls his tongue around all the hardness and strokes and _sucks_ , and Erik swears out loud and then says _Charles_ , _Charles_ — in their heads, and comes, like that, as if the sound of that name pulls him over the edge as it spills free.

Charles swallows, swallows again, and then just waits, keeping Erik’s softening cock in his mouth, lavishing attention on all those newly-sensitive areas, cheek pressed to the taut muscle of the nearest thigh, a grounding point for those bolts of lightning. For them both.

Erik shivers slightly— _too_ sensitive, now—and Charles pulls off and kisses him gently, not quite either an apology or a promise but something in between, and then leaves his head on Erik’s hip, resting in place, for a second while he breathes.

 _Come up here_ , Erik asks. _Please_. And the hand that touches his shoulder is tentative, when Erik’s never tentative about anything, always so sure of his own self-determined path. _Charles?_

 _You taste like honey,_ Charles says.

_I—can you look at me? Can I hold you?_

_Of course yes_. He slides up along Erik’s body, and only makes it partway before those long arms reach out and collect him and fold him up into pillows and lean warmth. _Feeling possessive?_

_Feeling like I love you. Are you all right?_

_I’m wonderful. Was that—_

_Wonderful for me too. You know that. You felt—you feel—can I kiss you?_

_Please_. Outside, the wind’s died down. The whole universe shimmers into silk sheets and stillness, and holds its breath.

_You taste like honey, as well._

_Among other things, probably, now. You don’t mind?_

_I like the way you taste_. That one comes with a complicated undertone of _mine/yes/beautiful/amazement_ , and then Erik adds, out loud and in their heads, “I love you,” and Charles finds himself smiling.

_I know. And I love you._

“Can I…reciprocate? For you?” _I want you like this, Charles. Smiling, for me._

 _Erik,_ Charles tells him, _you make me want to smile_ , and then Erik’s hand touches his face, his lips, and when Charles opens his mouth to let those fingers inside he can’t help laughing, because they taste like honey, because of course they do, he brought up a metal spoon, and Erik loves him and loves all his wistful indulgences.

 _Yes_ , Erik agrees, _I do_. “And now, I think, it is my turn to indulge you. Hold still,” which of course means that Charles _has_ to try to sit up and look, and consequently ends up with honey tangling in his hair.

“I did warn you.”

 _I don’t mind_ , Charles says, _you can clean me up later_ , and Erik laughs and kisses him again, until the world explodes with wild clover and sweetness and golden light, coming and coming home.

Later, so very much later, lying on a sunlit beach, ominous creeping numbness slowly replacing the agonizing pain, he hears those words again, only in memory this time. Erik is talking, but he’s saying other words, empty words, only sounds and shapes that fall coldly into the air, and there’s no life, no halos of sensation around them in anyone’s head. Charles thinks maybe he answers, but he can’t think, so he’s not sure.

 _You taste like honey_ , the Erik in his thoughts says again, laughing, a stray brightness that somehow escapes all the descending haze to burn brutally clear.

The apocalypse has a taste, as well. Sand and saltwater and ash. Iron and sweetness.

Charles says the wrong thing out loud because he always does when he’s lost and desperate and Erik leaves him because that’s what Erik does when _he’s_ lost and desperate. The world ends quietly, then. Another world keeps spinning, of course, but it’s not the same.

Charles stops using honey in his tea. Switches to artificial sweetener. It won’t pretend to be real.


	3. three: escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over halfway, now. In this section, Charles and Erik, and interludes with honey wine, literary wistfulness, and chilly mornings.

“Iceland,” Charles says. “Why Iceland?” and Erik shrugs. “I’ve never been to Iceland.”

“Neither have I.” _A harbor of doubtful neutrality?_

“I know you haven’t.” _Quoting C.S. Forester now, Charles?_

_I may have always found Horatio Hornblower rather attractive_.

Erik raises both eyebrows, amused. Inquires, “Should I have brought along a naval uniform, then?” and Charles can’t help thinking fleetingly about costumes, and Erik’s amusement shifts and flattens, one corner of that mouth lifting, wry. “Yes. Well. You have yours, as well.”

_Yes, of course_. “Although my fashion choices don’t involve an egregious abuse of the color magenta and—”

“I’m going to kidnap you more often,” Erik says, and kisses him, swift and sure and breathless,  “three months is too damned long.”

Yes. It is. Three _minutes_ is too damned long. And as equally insurmountable.

_And so did it ever matter if a grain of dust in a whirlwind retained its dignity?_ Charles quotes at him this time, line as bittersweet as the yearning need left on his lips when Erik straightens up; Erik either doesn’t hear or doesn’t choose to respond, so Charles opts for audible simplicity, instead. Tells himself it’s not a retreat. Not here, not now. “What does one do in Iceland?”

“One appreciates the great natural wonders of the world, I believe.” Erik pours them both drinks. In the distance, volcanoes loom, and Charles thinks about eruptions, and fire, and the end of the world, and moments that tremble on the brink, rescued from the apocalypse.

“One might appreciate hot springs as well,” he says, after a second, in place of _You are one of those wonders to me,_ and Erik laughs. “Already arranged. I believe you’ll enjoy our private pool, Charles.”

_You think of everything, my friend._

_I think of you,_ Erik says, and the honesty is so pure and disarming that Charles can’t answer, not right away, as it billows brightly through his mind. He takes a sip from the glass that’s appeared in his hand, for lack of anything better to do.

“Oh dear god what _is_ this?”

“Honey wine.” And Charles doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but it must be entertaining, judging from the grin on Erik’s face. “Decent?”

“It tastes like sugar. You bought me wine that tastes like sugar.”

“Does it,” Erik murmurs, and then leans down to kiss him again, licking sweetness from the corners of Charles’s lips, and the heat between them has nothing to do with the wine, or the volcanoes, or the end of that whole ill-fated world, because Erik’s lips are touching his and that’s enough.

It’s not enough, of course. But it’s everything, always, anyway.

_I think of you as well_ , he admits, equally honest this time. _Always_. Always.

And Erik—Erik, not Magneto—smiles, the smile that only the two of them ever get to see, and starts peeling off Charles’s clothes, slowly, reverently, with care. Not because he thinks that Charles is fragile, or incapable of doing so himself. They both know beyond doubt that that isn’t the case. Only because here and now, Erik _can_ , unabashedly, simply, openly, care.

 

The last morning, Erik awakens first, as he almost always does. He lies there for a while admiring the pale lines of Charles’s body. There are some new scars, some lines across the delicate skin. They’d been undiscovered territory at the start of this interlude, but by now Erik’s tasted each one. Charles will never not be beautiful, with them or without.

In any case, Erik’s got some recent battle scars of his own, not quite matching, but there for the learning, too. Every time they explore each other anew.

The coolly distant morning sun creeps up and peers through the window. Charles, deeply asleep, doesn’t stir. Erik’s got one arm thrown over the familiar chest, and had woken up, a few minutes ago, with his head on that solid shoulder, breathing in the scent of Charles’s skin.

Scent holds the strongest memories, he thinks. Ocean water. Cold metal in a lab. Salt and sand and a sun-shrouded beach. Sweat and heat and Charles’s ridiculous cologne on shared sheets. Right now, traces of honey wine and sex and chilly dawn outside.

Charles probably has the universe’s worst hangover. He’d fallen into some sort of passionate love affair with the wine, and they’d had to request extra bottles. Had finished most of them, though after a while Erik’d stopped drinking, vaguely aware that one of them ought to stay relatively sober, feeling the glowing warmth reflected in his own thoughts regardless.

One of them had to stay sober, yes. One of them has to resist the siren call of exuberance and optimism and faith in the world. One of them has to be able to fight. So that the _other_ one someday won’t have to.

Charles had pulled him into bed and kissed him everywhere, lips like molten sugar, sweet and hot and searing to the bone. Erik’d picked up the whispers, at those moments, at _that_ moment, Charles intoxicated and ecstatic and deliriously losing control, stray explosions like far-off fireworks: _Erik/ I love you/ yes this please/ why can’t we/ want this always forever with you but you won’t and I won’t and you/ no never mind let this be/ let this be easy/ want you/ just this just now/ oh right there do that PLEASE/ and if I do THIS then you can/ love you/ Erik/ YES!_

He looks at Charles, sleeping, again. Thinks about waking up with his head pillowed on that shoulder. Thinks, softly, _I love you_ , and the words hurt like nothing he’s ever felt before. But it’s a good kind of pain. Like scorching water, cleansing the raw edges of a wound.

“I love you as well,” Charles murmurs, and opens his eyes, winces at the sunlight, closes them. “Dear god…”

“Yes, that was quite impressive. Water?” _Are you all right?_

“Thank you, and thank you, and yes, I’m fine. I’ve felt far worse, believe me, though admittedly not lately. And this was very much worth it.” _You were—are!—worth it._

So honest. Unafraid of those emotions. Love as strength, not vulnerability. Oh, Charles. His Charles.

“Erik…” _Are YOU all right? I, er, think I may have been responsible for that bruise on your shoulder…_

“You were, and I’m spectacular.” True. In this moment, with Charles, it’s true. In this moment, with Charles, he’s happy. Just this, he thinks, just now.

Charles looks up at him and smiles, and maybe he’s reading Erik’s mind or maybe not, considering the headache he’s so thoughtfully sharing with Erik’s brain at the moment, and what he says is, _Yes, you are_ , which could answer either Erik’s verbal statement or the thought on its heels. He doesn’t specify, and Erik can’t tell.

And Erik, who _is_ afraid, who fears precisely one specific word each time he glances from metal chair to lively eyes, knows that he’s too much of a coward, or too desperate, to ask whether Charles is happy, in return.

_Happy_ is such a complicated word. So is _duty_. And _regret_. And _determination_.

No word is as complicated, or as true, as _love_.

So what he says is, “We have this place for—we shouldn’t need to—depart from here—for another four hours,” because that’s true, too, and he can’t say the word _leave_ , not to those eyes. Charles stares at the clock for a second, a reflex, manifestly not because he doesn’t trust Erik’s timekeeping skills, and then says, “So I’ve got four hours to make you feel spectacular again then?” and Erik hears himself say one more complicated word in reply, and it’s “Yes.”

He sends Charles bottles of honey wine, always on random days, always at least once every year.


	4. four: curative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Erik and Charles perspectives, with hurt!Charles and protective!Erik, long-overdue conversations, dinosaurs, and Shakespeare. Yep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Thanks for reading! The support is entirely appreciated.

They’re stranded in the Savage Land, where Charles can miraculously walk, where giant flying dinosaurs routinely devour unwary travelers, where anything at all might be possible.

And Charles is dying.

Out of all the possibilities, that’s the one that encompasses the world.

“I’m not…”Charles coughs, winces, stops trying to talk. Out loud, at least. _I’m not dying, Erik, honestly—_

“You have a _hole_ ,” Erik says, “in your _stomach_.”

_Yes, granted, but I’m fairly sure it takes rather a long time to die from—_

_It does!_ “And that doesn’t mean anything good!” Erik doesn’t mean to snap, or maybe he does, because he’s seen men die that way before. Has caused one or two of those deaths himself. He’s never imagined Charles in that kind of agony. Has never wanted to.

They’d been fighting each other, minutes or hours before. In battle, the streets of New York lighting up with ferocity and anger, ice and fire and every mutation imaginable brought into play. Technically, distantly, he supposes it’d been his fault, or the fault of the United Nations vote on mutant oversight and regulation that he’d been planning to disrupt. It hadn’t been his fault in the sense that he’d ordered any outright attack.

He hadn’t. Rash decisions by idiotic lieutenants. None of them deserve to be his equal.

The only person who’s ever been that is now lying very still on the ground, slowly bleeding out, over Erik’s hands and arms and hastily sacrificed cape, insufficient material to hold back the ebbing of the tide.

One of those same ridiculous dinosaurs. Claws out just as someone’s random mutation knocked both of them sideways, off the streets of New York and into elsewhere, landing sprawled over each other at the edge of a nest, Charles with his mouth open to continue the please-be-good-now lecture and Erik with one hand poised to do— _something_ —with Charles’s wheelchair, to pull it toward him or yank the support away, so easy, _too_ easy, or to fling it and that vulnerable beloved shape to safety or—

He’d run out of time. And Charles is running out of time now.

He would laugh—of all the myriad incalculable potentialities, _this_ is how his world ends?—but he can’t, because it’s so horribly real.

Charles’d pushed _him_ out of the way.

He’d meant to murder the senseless creature, had lunged for the metal in the rocks, in its bloodstream, but Charles had collapsed against him, into his arms—maybe on purpose, as a distraction, he’d thought, and then had realized that Charles hadn’t meant the distraction at all, because Charles was unconscious and _dying_.

_I am not._

_You need proper medical attention_. He can fight back, and he is, with all of his power, holding back that flood of iron-rich warmth for as long as he can, but he’s not practiced this intricate kind of control as often as he should, not for far too long, and they’re both exhausted from previous battleground demands.

He’s not a healer. He can’t fix this. Can’t conquer creeping infection or internal injuries. The best he can offer is that holding pattern. It won’t be enough.

 _Charles_ , he whispers, _I’m sorry_. For not being enough. In so many ways.

“It’s not as if you stabbed me,” Charles points out, reasonably enough, aloud; and then, _don’t say that. Not to me._

It’s true. It’s true and Charles doesn’t want to hear it. Can’t hear it, can’t accept those words, not from him. He lets his gaze slide away, to land on the helmet, flung carelessly against some rocks. He’d yanked it off without a thought, _because_ of a thought, because Charles wasn’t going to die, he _wasn’t_ , and Erik had needed to hear Charles’s thoughts one more time just because he’s always needed Charles.

And Charles doesn’t need anything from him.

The helmet winks at him, mockingly brilliant in the dazzle of sunshine. The whole world is golden and green and lush and fantastical. The whole world, except for the dull red splashes of Charles’s blood on the ground.

“That’s not at all what I meant,” Charles says, exasperatedly, “will you cease being melodramatic for one moment, please, and listen to me—” And then coughs. And there’s more red.

“Don’t _talk_ ,” Erik says, while his heart continues busily breaking. _Please_.

_…you may be…right about that, I suspect…sorry._

And Erik’d thought he had no tears left, after all the years and all the pain. Charles is telling him he’s right. There’s no other word, other than _wrong_. No words at all.

_I might be able…to think of a few…_

_…what?_

_Well,_ Charles sighs _, the ones that come to mind…happen to be…fucking ridiculous dinosaurs_. And Erik gasps, breathes in, and laughs until all the laughter turns into tears, and he’s kneeling there with his hands holding Charles’s body together and feeling the familiar merry smile in his heart, searing pain and wicked humor and affection and love.

 _I meant_ , Charles offers, finally, shared ripples still swirling between them, something almost like reassurance though Erik knows that can’t be true, _you don’t need to apologize. Not to me_.

_Of course I do!_

_No, you don’t._

_Charles—_

_We were young and stupid and I was clumsy and neither of us was thinking straight. And if you said, or did, things you regret, well, so did I. So if you’re going to apologize to me, you’ll have to let me apologize to you as well._

_…you don’t hate me?_

_Erik! Of course not. I never have_.

And that’s true, too. As incontrovertible as a continuing heartbeat. As life. Their life, together. Always together, even when they’re apart.

 _I won’t say I wasn’t angry with you_ , Charles admits now, open and honest, truth pouring out like all the blood, tangible, visible, painful and real. _I was. Sometimes I still am. But I should’ve asked you to come back. To come home. You never wanted to, though, and I couldn’t—if you didn’t—I couldn’t ask—_

_I did come back._

_You—what?_

_I did—the second after I left I realized I shouldn’t’ve—but by the time I got back to the beach you were gone, you were gone and I didn’t know where to—I couldn’t—_ No words, again. He shuts his eyes. Lets Charles see that memory: himself flickering back into existence, a puff of teleporting smoke. Merciless sunlight, beating down. Deserted sand. The wreckage, watching him meaningfully.

He’d knelt down. Touched the sand. It’d been cold, despite the gilded afternoon. In one certain spot, still dyed with flecks of red. He’d understood those iron-mute accusations, then. Could hear them now.

_Erik—_

_You were gone. So I looked for you. The only way I ever knew how._

Charles breathes out, carefully. _…I didn’t know that’s how you—I didn’t know._

_I know. It’s all right._

_It’s not,_ Charles says, and then coughs, and closes his eyes, in the aftermath. _Sean took me to the nearest infirmary. As quickly as he could. That’s where we were._

_You don’t have to explain—please just rest, please don’t—_

_I’m all right for now,_ Charles says, and opens his eyes again, but doesn’t move, lying there. _A bit cold, perhaps. But I think you’ve stopped the bleeding._

The sunlight pours liquid gold across their faces, over Erik’s arms, the fabric of clothes, the vivid grass. His skin is hot with it. And Charles is cold.

 _I’m sorry_ , he whispers, again, and then folds himself down onto the grass next to that crumpled shape, and tries to stretch arms and legs and all of his heart into some last desperate measure of protection. Charles smiles, just a little, in their heads. Tea and expensive notepaper. Silk and strawberry jam. The lingering impression of a kiss.

 _They’ll find us_ , Erik promises. _Someone will. Someone will figure out what happened._                                            

_I know…_

_Then you know that you have to stay awake. You have to stay with me. You have to—do you want me to sing to you?_

_…you can sing?_

_Not very well. My mother used to—I mean, when I was ill, or upset—I remember that._ That’s one of the memories he’d thought he’d lost. That one, like all his other memories, is bittersweet, flavored with love and loss and Charles.

_I never knew you could sing._

_I’ve never heard you curse at dinosaurs_. And Charles laughs, this time, amusement briefly obscuring all the twinkling sharp brightnesses of pain.

Erik cradles him a bit more closely, under the implacable light of the afternoon, the two of them curled together on the hard ground. The scents of crushed grass and blood hover palpably around, until Charles sighs and a drift of cool rain washes through their joined perceptions, telepathic and unreal but real in every way that matters, and Erik starts to sing, half under his breath, words out of the past, and Charles stays awake to listen, and Erik holds on.

 

When Charles wakes up—not as cold, now, an insidious lack of sensation that can’t mean anything good—the sun’s slanting lower in the sky, and no one’s found them yet, and he’s alone.

He’s not alone, though. He recognizes that between one heartbeat and the next. Erik’s here. Erik’s _here_.

Erik, in fact, _is_ there, abruptly, crashing back out of the trees, love and fear and desperation flaring up in spikes, a conflagration that sends a little heat back into Charles’s frozen bones. He’s got a leaf in his hair and a bruise on one cheek, probably from their ungraceful landing, hours ago, and his flamboyant outfit’s long since been sacrificed to bandages.

“Charles,” he says, voice rough, and Charles loves him.

There aren’t even words. Only emotion, endless and secure.

“I found you water. Here…” Those arms can, and have, crushed skyscrapers to earth. Called submarines to shore. Toppled buildings and dreams. Right now, they’re firm support. Right now they’re gentle.

He realizes how thirsty he is after the first coolness touches his lips, keeps drinking, and then belatedly stops. _Sorry._

_No, it’s all right, you need it more than I do, go on._

Charles just looks at him. Erik’s equally stubborn, of course, one more way they’re so well-matched, always have been; but right now Charles is wounded and so Erik has one weakness after all.

Erik shakes his head, sighs, accepts the last sip or two. “Happy?”

 _Yes_.

Erik looks at him, blinks, shakes his head again. “Charles…” _You mean that, don’t you? Even now._

 _You found me water_. It’s in a makeshift cup, woven out of glittering metal strands: Erik’s pocket paperclips and tiny spinning orbs, the ones he’s never without, his companions. He’s spun them into a shining chalice, to hold precious liquid. The fading sunlight dances along the rim.

 _How are you feeling_ , Erik asks. Carefully hiding any expectations, if he has them, for the reply.

 _I…_ He can’t lie. Not while he’s watching the sun scamper over the sides of that last small wistful offering. _I don’t think…I’m afraid it’s not very good, Erik, I’m sorry._ And he lets Erik feel that, too: he’s pretty sure Erik’s preventing him from bleeding out there on the grass, but the cold’s reached icy fingertips into the wound, by this time.

He knows his X-Men are looking for him. Knows that the Brotherhood will be looking for their own leader, their inspiration. Knows that Erik will stay here at his side for as long as Charles would stay at his, were the situation reversed, and will do everything he can.

Eventually even Erik will grow tired. He knows that, too.

 _It’s all right,_ he says, to that fiercely loving mind tangled up in his. _You sang to me. It’s all right._

 _I love you,_ Erik says.

_I love you._

_I know._

_You’re thinking about pineapple tea._

_I’m thinking about the first time you kissed me. Your skin tasted like that tea. Like everything I’d never imagined I could want. Like pineapple and—_

_…and? Erik?_

_Wait here!_

_What—where are you—WHAT?_

_I’ll be right back! I love you! Stay here!_

_I’m hardly going anywhere at the moment!_ Charles shouts back, indignantly, and then the pain decides to come back and scold him for the shouting after all, and he thinks that maybe Erik meant the words in a more metaphysical sense, and when the world blurs around him he thinks that maybe he hates metaphysics, and he thinks that maybe he’s still happy regardless, remembering the taste of pineapple tea.

 

Erik runs back into their tiny clearing, nearly trips over some scattered debris from the nest they’d destroyed; hears that beloved voice, in his memory, cheerfully cursing the dinosaurs, and feels the tears burn their way up through his throat. Forces them back.

Charles hasn’t moved, head lolling to one side, eloquent fingers immobile. Those depthless blue eyes are closed. But he’s alive, he _is_ alive, Erik can tell. Would know if he were dead. Would feel it, like the snapping of a harpstring, the silencing of all the music in the world.

Charles wakes up a little when Erik kneels back down beside him and peels away inadequate cloth. Neither of them winces, Charles because he’s probably beyond pain—or simply not letting himself feel it—and Erik because he won’t allow the reaction to set in.

Not good. Bad, in fact. Ugly.

Erik doesn’t pray, hasn’t in all the years he can remember. He doesn’t call it prayer, what he’s doing now. He’s only asking for the universe to be kind. Just this once. For those blue eyes. Please.

He can feel Charles’s unfocused curiosity, dulled and distracted but instantly recognizable nevertheless, peeking into his thoughts, discovering what his hands are busy doing. _Oh…honey…oh, that’s brilliant!_

Of course Charles knows about the antibiotic uses of honey. He’s probably read it in a book somewhere, done studies on the genetic properties of golden syrup. Erik’s knowledge has been acquired firsthand, from a passionate desire for survival and a willingness to learn from any source that might teach him.

Two different approaches. One mutual understanding.

It is…unfortunate, he thinks, very privately, that other aspects of their lives don’t work the same way. But that’s how this goes: he’ll fight Charles when he has to and kiss Charles senseless when he gets any chance and love Charles without stopping, every day.

Unfortunate isn’t really the word he wants, but he can’t find a better one. Not while his hands are slippery with Charles’s blood, and his heart is desperately trying to beat for both of them. Some days he doesn’t understand his heart at all. It never gives in. Never gives up.

 _That’s why_ , Charles says, waking up more, and then, _so…lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries, ‘hold, enough’?_

“Are you quoting _Macbeth_ at me? _Now_?”

_I might be slightly delirious. I am, as you pointed out, most likely dying…_

“You are not,” Erik says, even though he’s been arguing the opposite, trying to point out how serious that injury is, from the beginning. It’s instinct, arguing with Charles. Like coming home. Again.

Besides, if he says it out loud, the sentence might become true.

Charles hasn’t said anything in reply, hasn’t moved. Erik, a little frantically, whispers, _Stars, hide your fires, let not night see my black and deep desires,_ and thinks that the stars don’t matter; Charles knows all his desires anyway. Each and every one.

 _So I do_. The amusement is faint, a flicker of candle in the wind, but it’s there. _And you know mine._

 _Are we a tragedy, Charles?_ Maybe that’s the word he’s been looking for, all along.

Charles doesn’t answer, and at first Erik wonders if that _is_ an answer, and then touches that nearest hand and feels the cold. “No,” he says. “No. Please.” _Charles, please!_

He could say: you can’t leave me. You can’t go without me. Not now, not here. But he knows those words are a lie: Charles _could_ leave him, here and now, slipping away from him on the sunlit grass.

He says them anyway, voice shaking. No response. His hands are sticky, blood and honey and body heat spilling over them. Charles’s heart must still be beating. The blood would slow, would stop, if he were dead.

 _Charles_ , he says, _I love you. I won’t let you die here. I promise. I promise you. I can save you._ That’s all he’s ever wanted to do, in any case.

And Charles, without opening his eyes, murmurs back, _the spring, the summer, the childling autumn, the angry winter, change their wonted liveries…_

 _Did we switch plays?_ Erik says, or tries to, because he’s crying.

_Mmm…I know you know this one. The mazéd world by their increase now knows not which is which, and this same progeny of evils comes from our debate, our dissension…_

_…we are their parents and originals._ “Not—not a tragedy, this time?” Charles’s favorite always was—has been? is it still?— _Macbeth_. Erik’s never admitted that his own is _Much Ado About Nothing_ , though he suspects that Charles knows. They’ve never even discussed _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

_I’ve always been partial to Oberon…_

Which comparison, if Erik could stop to think about it, would actually make quite a lot of sense. He can’t think, though. If he lets himself think, he’ll have to realize that this is Charles losing focus, thoughts wandering away into fantasy, leaving behind the wounds and the pain and the uncaring sun.

He says the first words that come to mind. “I…don’t see myself as a particularly good Fairy Queen, Charles…In any case, _you_ were quoting Titania, as I recall.”

Bleak little anchors, flung out in the face of the oncoming devastation. Even the too-vibrant grass thinks they’re insufficient. The silence stretches out like fraying rope, weighed down by the lack of reply.

_…true. You can be my Robin Goodfellow. Are you not he that frights the maidens of the villagery?_

“Am I,” Erik says, breathless with laughter, with tears, with despair. “Well, then…” _Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends?_

_Skipping…to the end…are we? Already?_

He’d meant each word of his question. Charles, possibly understanding, or by now just listening to the promptings of some faraway dream, moves cold fingertips a fraction; Erik reaches over and gathers them into his. Answers, with all the certainty he’s ever felt in his life, summoned back for this purpose alone, _This isn’t the end._

_It isn’t?_

_No. Didn’t you hear my line, Charles?_

_I did,_ Charles says, and smiles, sweet and pure and true. _Didn’t you notice I’m holding your hands?_

It’s Charles’s people who arrive first. Teleporters, telepaths, fighters, all bristling with protective outrage on their mentor’s behalf. Charles, sliding in and out of consciousness, nevertheless hears them coming seconds before they physically appear; hears, also, that Erik’s own forces are only moments behind.

 _Erik_ , Charles says.

_I know._

_Go. Deal with yours. I’ll manage mine. If they arrive and see me like this and you covered in my blood—_

“I know!” _Are you—_

_We’ve got a healer; I’ll be fine. I won’t let them notice you were here._

_I love you,_ Erik promises, one more time, and Charles kisses him without either of them moving their lips. _I know._

He makes himself walk away, as the X-Men come sweeping into the clearing. _Their_ clearing. It might be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

Charles keeps his word, despite how exhausted he must be. No one sees Erik melt into the shadows. No one chases him, or flings icicles, or hurls thunderbolts at his back.

The Brotherhood’s ecstatic to see him unharmed. They rejoice. They whisk him back home amid triumphant cheers. Someone even thoughtfully finds his helmet. Erik takes it, and doesn’t put it on.

He continues to not put it on for hours. Until Charles is out of the infirmary. Until Charles is safe at home.

The distant connection’s fading, as pain-killing drugs and the need for sleep nibble at the tattered corners of coherence. Outside, the grey world begins raining, a far cry from Savage Land sunshine. Erik sits on his narrow bed, knees pulled up, feet shoved beneath blankets for warmth. The only real warmth is the presence in his thoughts.

_Charles?_

_Still here…though not for much longer, I think, I’m a bit tired, sorry…_

_Don’t apologize_ , Erik tells him, an echo, _not to me_ , and feels the wordless caress, in return.

_Love you._

_And I love you. You ought to rest._

_I will…Only wanted to know you were all right._

_That’s my line, Charles._

And Charles laughs. _Sorry about all the Shakespeare. I might’ve been a bit delusional, at the time. Blood loss and all._

Erik chooses, pointedly, to not respond to that last statement. _Next time I get to choose the play._                  

_I’d prefer there not to be a next time…at least, not like this…though, Erik…you know I—I wouldn’t mind a theater date, if you’re asking._

_I’m asking, then. And agreed. And…Charles? Are you still awake?_

_Hmm…yes? And also yes. To you asking._

_Why_ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _?_ Erik asks the question softly, across the space between them. _It’s a comedy of errors…_

 _No,_ Charles answers, into his thoughts. _It’s a romance_.


	5. five: beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for all the lovely feedback! So very much appreciated.

It’s not because Charles could’ve died. They’ve both been there before, and that’s no kind of epiphany, by now. They’ve always known how easily they could lose everything, how fragile this tenuous connection is.

What they’ve never realized, or maybe it’s only Erik who’s failed to notice, is that this _is_ a connection. Not a _re_ connection. It _has_ always been there. And sometimes it’s fraught with tension and brittle as drawn-out wire over empty spaces, lonely telegraph signposts singing in the wind, that’s true.

But it’s a clear signal. Strong.

It’s not about the possibility of death, one or both of theirs. It’s about the possibility of life. Together.

 _A romance_ , Charles says, in his memory, and smiles.

Charles doesn’t put honey in his tea, these days. Erik’d discovered this only belatedly, the first time they’d spoken in person. Agreement to meet once, over a chessboard. Central Park in the first teeth of spring. Cold air and concealing scarves.

They’d both arrived early. Two weary generals, eying each other across a battlefield. Charles’d glanced around, obviously not spotted Erik lurking behind his chosen tree, and paused to collect tea from a convenient sidewalk vendor.

Erik had almost straightened up and walked over to him, secure in his tactical advantage, then. But he wasn’t secure at all.

He’d leaned on the accommodating tree, not entirely voluntarily, and eavesdropped on Charles picking up the tea. Wondered how he could be this lucky, allowed to witness that beloved indulgence, one more time.

Charles, with the motions of unthinking habit, had opened a packet of artificial sweetener. Plopped it in. Erik, watching, had bitten his own lip hard enough to taste blood.

He’s been afraid, every morning since then, to make tea for Charles. Every morning they wake up together or fight each other or catch glances across a chessboard, he wants to. Wants to hand Charles a mug, steam-sweet and scented and glowing with amber syrup.

Every morning they wake up together, he gets as far as hot water and tea leaves. And then helplessly tries to make certain that he’s got everything available, every option Charles might ever possibly desire, the artificial sweetener and the pure cane sugar and, hidden in among all the other choices, small packages of fresh wild honey, flavors of lavender and blueberry and orange blossom. Everything. Wherever they are.

That first meeting’d been such a disaster. He remembers that with a certain fondness, these days. So easy, all the righteous rage. So simple to shut down and remain cold and brittle and pretend that he didn’t miss his own heart, sitting there across a table and a beach and an eternity, gazing at him with remote blue eyes.

Charles has saved his life, since then. His soul, on occasion. He likes to think, to hope, that once in a while he’s done enough, been enough, for Charles, in return.

Charles, at first, had only ever used the artificial sweetener. Erik’d nearly given up. Had given up, in fact; had told himself he’d stop, the next time, the next morning. And then Charles, after contemplating the array of lonely offerings in silence, had picked up the _real_ sugar, not quite looking at Erik, and smiled a very tiny smile.

Not the same. Of course not. But he’d found himself, cautiously, smiling in reply.

Today, he’s looking at a calendar.

Normally he doesn’t need to; neither does Charles. They’re both capable of juggling worlds inside their heads, reordering universes and turning them around if necessary. What this means, however, is that neither of them has bothered to memorize certain more mundane dates, such as theatre schedules.

Suddenly he wonders why not. It’s not as if Charles isn’t the most important person in his life. That’s not even a truth. It just _is_.

Charles laughs, tart and delicious as late-autumn apples, in their heads. _I love you, too. How do you feel about_ King Lear _?_

_I’ve never liked him much. And yes, I know that’s the idea. Still true._

_Hmm. Well, if we give up on Shakespeare, for the moment—_ Les Miserables _?_

_I’ve never actually—_

_Oh, then we should! You’d enjoy it, I believe._ Enthusiasm. Excitement about the pleasures of the world. As always.

Erik, who in previous days first found that enthusiasm naïve, then willfully misguided, then worthy of safeguarding with violence if necessary, right now feels the heat of it soaking all the way to his bones, and is content.

 _If you’d like_ , he says, which is agreement. And Charles grins.

He studies the calendar again. _Next week?_

_Yes—no, wait, one of my former students is getting married that weekend and I’ve been invited—_

_Are you going?_

_Why not? They’re both quite nice young men._

Oh. Well. He has absolutely no problem with that, obviously not, considering, but this does mean that they likely have single friends. And Charles is…well. Charles. Which means irresistible. _Would you like a date?_

_I am not, and in any case it’s not as if I’m not happily in a long-term committed relationship, and yes, if you’d like to come._

Erik wants to answer, but his brain just keeps repeating that middle phrase, excitedly, between them. Charles laughs, and the morning rain dances eager steps along the rooftops, through his veins.

He’s looking at the tidy squares, marking off dates and times in neat little boxes, orderly and precise. Except it’s not neat, this thing between then. It’s not orderly, or precise. It’s multifaceted and brilliant and headspinningly effervescent. Always has been. Always will be.

And he wouldn’t want this— _them_ — any other way.

Gradually, he becomes aware of some small print indicating a holiday, on the square on which his eyes’ve fallen.

Oh, he thinks again. _That_ holiday.

And it’s not as if he’s a particularly observant religious person; how can he be, these days, but those memories are all still there, the ones Charles has given back to him, his mother and candles and soft-voiced prayers, and Rosh Hashanah, judgment and penance and atonement and a new year, a day of starting over, the taste of apples dipped in honey stirring on his tongue. For a sweet new year, she’d said.

Apples, honey, Charles’s laughter. Himself as Charles’s date to weddings. Charles holding his hands. Amends and romance and split-open hearts growing back together, over the years.

New years.

 _Charles_ , he says.

_Hmm? Having second thoughts about the play? Or the wedding invitation?  If you’d rather not—_

_No second thoughts!_ Not even first thoughts, now. Only the abrupt and shining upswell of joy.

_I wanted—want, or maybe both, maybe I’ve always wanted—to ask you something._

_Anything, Erik, you know that—_

_Yes but I think I’d like to ask you this in person—_

_Is this anything to do with what you were just thinking—_

_Yes!—but don’t be impatient, Charles, I know you were listening, I don’t care, but try not to guess correctly for just one moment and let me—_

_Hurry, then!_ Charles says, and laughs again, wondering and ecstatic, impatient and imperfect and perfect in every single way.

 

When Erik arrives, out of breath and helmetless and having forgotten a scarf, Charles demands, “Ask me your question!” and doesn’t care that he, himself, has also forgotten a scarf and even a coat, and also that he’s probably grinning like an idiot.

“Charles,” Erik says, “stop that, I want to do this right, and when I asked you to meet me here I didn’t mean you should arrive without a coat on, here, have mine, honestly.” _I love you._

 _I love you!_ “And I’m not cold—oh, all right, if you insist—all right, yes, thank you.” He doesn’t ask whether Erik’s sure. He’s felt the certainty. He knows.

The chessboards, around them, know, too. They play with the rays of the setting sun, and catch fire, and shine. Central Park, at sunset: scenery like a painting, like an artist’s ideal. But better, because it’s all true.

“Do you remember,” Erik asks, “the first time we came here? After?” _I was terrified. I didn’t know how to—how to talk to you._

 _You never told me that._ “I remember. You asked whether we could just play chess, for a while. And I—I didn’t know what you wanted. From me.”

 _I’ve always wanted you_. “I could never figure out whether we played to a draw on purpose, that time…”

“I contemplated winning. Because I wanted to. And then I contemplated losing. Because I thought you’d prefer that. In the end I just played. It was honest. If slightly confused.” _I’ve never stopped wanting you_.

And Erik laughs, briefly, genuinely, that sound that only Charles gets to hear. Admits, _I contemplated precisely the same. Same conclusions, as well._ “In every case. Everything you’ve just said. All of that.”

“We’re clearly just made for each other, aren’t we, then,” Charles says, and holds out his hands. Erik takes them. Of course. That’s another of those delicious certainties. _Did you know, by the way, that certain marriage ceremonies involve honey? Persian, for instance. In case you were wondering._

“Neither of us is Persian, Charles.” _Not very subtle of you._

 _Yes, but you’ve been busy thinking that I’m perfect regardless. I heard you_. “We can be flexible. Compromises, adaptations…”

 _Yes. We can_. “And you are.” Erik, still holding his hands, takes a deep breath. Then, very carefully, gets down on one knee, in the chilly evening grass, as the stars come out, as the sunset deepens and grows more serene, dark blue spangled with silver delight.

“Erik,” Charles says, and then tries—mostly successfully—to not start crying. Erik looks amused, for a second, and then vaguely alarmed, not as much because of Charles’s tears as because of the threat of his lurking own. This makes Charles smile, despite the tears. As Erik knew it would, letting him see.

“Yes,” Erik says, smiling slightly, “evil mastermind, I’m afraid, even now,” and Charles starts laughing, helplessly, happily, instead.

“Charles,” Erik says, this time, “I love you. And you drive me utterly insane, and you listen to all my thoughts even when I’m trying to surprise you, and you make me question everything, you think the world is beautiful and that’s ridiculous, except it isn’t, when I’m next to you. I’d change the world, for you, if you wanted—I’ve been trying to anyway, I think—” _If you want this, if you say you might—can we try to change the world together, this time? This year?_

 _Erik_ , Charles answers, not aloud because he _is_ crying now, _yes, always, together, this year, every year, and you know I’ve always thought the world’s more beautiful with you—and you can be my evil mastermind forever if you—_ “And wait—you’ve still not actually asked me to marry you!”

“I didn’t?” Erik, still on his knees, blinks, looks dumbfounded, and then they’re both laughing, through the emotions, under the starlit sky. “I didn’t!”

“It’s all right, yes, I’m saying yes—”

“You can’t say yes yet! I haven’t asked you!”

“Sorry, sorry, go on—!”

“Charles Xavier,” Erik says, very formally, eyes dancing, that paler and more complex shade of Charles’s own, winter-blue that isn’t cold at all, not now, “will you marry me?”

And Charles says, one more time, “Yes!”

 

_epilogue: endearment_

The morning after, Erik wakes up first. He generally does, of course, but this time feels different. Lighter. Like he’s had a good night’s sleep for the first time in years. Like he’s had a good night, for the first time in years.

He looks at Charles, smiles a little, and gets up to get things started.

By the time those blue eyes open, he’s sitting on the pillowy bed again, where he always should’ve been, and waiting. Charles stirs, yawns, smiles through the yawn, and sends a burst of wordless happiness, sunfire at dawn, through their minds.

“Yes,” Erik says, “same to you. Would you…do you want tea?” And then he holds his breath.

He’d almost put honey in it, this morning. So close. Jar in hand. His certainty’d wavered, at the last possible second.

He knows that Charles loves him. He knows how badly he, himself, wants to be here, how right this feels, dislocated joints snapping back into place at last, cracked iron liquefied and made molten and forged anew, sugar dissolving into heat and making the world sweeter together. He wants this with a clarity he’s never known since his single-minded hunt for Sebastian Shaw, except that’s not right, because this is a new kind of clarity after all, at last, not black and all-encompassing but brilliant and coruscating and rainbow-hued with joy.

But it won’t be easy. It’ll be a long road. There’ll be potholes. Speed bumps. Bruises on both sides. And he knows that Charles loves him, yes. What he doesn’t know is what Charles, under the cool pale realistic light of morning, wants to _do_.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles says, “of course you know, it’s what you want, what we both want. Honey?”

“…what?”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t actually calling you that—though I might be from now on, you understand—I was only trying to ask you the question. Is there possibly honey? For the tea?”

“Charles,” Erik says, “yes,” and “here,” and, soundlessly, _I love you._

 _And I love you. Which you really ought to know. The potholes and speed bumps will just have to deal with the two of us. And—_ “This is _pineapple_ tea. Erik, you—did you want to share this one, with me, then?” _Please do._

_You taste like pineapple tea._

_So do you, now. Oh, wait—I mean—so do you, honey._

“Charles,” Erik protests, one last time, futilely, “no,” but Charles is laughing in his arms, and the sun’s glowing raptly at them from the crack in the curtains, and he’s going to end up being called honey for the rest of their lives, for a lifetime, together, and when he kisses those lips again they taste like tea and sweetness and I-do promises and love.

 

_what if I do, lord_   
_what if I don't_   
_I'd have to lose everything just to find you_   
_but it's my turn, this soul won't burn_   
_so throw me in the fire_


End file.
